


Charity Case

by Severina



Category: Die Hard (Movies)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 00:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: Matt flopped back in his chair. It might have looked a bit melodramatic – at least judging by the eye-roll the Warlock gave the webcam – but he wassufferinghere.  "I've got to get my own place," he intoned.*  *  *





	Charity Case

**Author's Note:**

> Written for smallfandomfest for the prompt 'charity'
> 
> * * *

"So," the Warlock said, "is it any better?"

Matt flopped back in his chair. It might have looked a bit melodramatic – at least judging by the eye-roll the Warlock gave the webcam – but he was _suffering_ here. "I've got to get my own place," he intoned.

Warlock looked like he was flicking through about five programs at once, and he scowled at something on a monitor Matt couldn't see before he returned his attention to his own 'cam. "Seriously, dude, I'm not sure what the big fuckin' deal is. I live with _my_ mother."

Matt remembered two week vacations every summer at the Kaludis place, squirming around to find a place on the ratty floral sofa that didn't have a busted spring, staying up half the night searching for hidden keys in the latest iteration of _Zelda_ ; Mrs. Kaludis finding them sprawled out on the carpet in the morning in a Mountain Dew and Cheeto haze. He contrasted that quickly to his own mother, who only allowed the living room sofa to be used on Christmas Day; who only kept Evian in the house and would blanch if a single speck of Cheeto dust crossed her threshold.

"Yeah, man," Matt said. "Not quite the same thing."

Warlock made a face. "Does she do your laundry?"

"Yeah—"

"Make your dinner?"

"Yes, but—"

"Clean your room?"

"Okay, _yes_ , but I'm telling you—"

"Matthew Titus Farrell!" 

Matt cringed as the bedroom door swung open behind him. She also had no sense of privacy, had thrown out the two band T-shirts he'd managed to save from the Giant Fireball That Ate His Apartment, and thought no one noticed that her morning OJ smelled distinctly like a distillery. Maybe he shouldn't have so callously discounted taking a room at the Y.

"Titus," Warlock snickered.

"Matthew," his mom sighed. Matt had learned from an early age that being Susan Farrell's son earned him buckets full of sighs. Also disappointed head-shakes and the occasional admonition to heaven. "Have you been sitting there all day?"

"All day, every day, twenty-four/seven," Matt said. He swung around in his chair, swept an arm toward the jerry-rigged hodgepodge of computer parts that was all he'd managed to reassemble of his gear. "Just, you know, trying to work out a code that will prevent the wholesale destruction of the financial marketplace in case of another attempted attack on America's infrastructure that will turn out to be ultimately unsellable due to my inadvertent participation in the most recent firesale. Other than that, not doing much."

"There's no need for sarcasm," she tsked. She looked down her nose, another patented Susan Farrell move. He waited aaaaaaaaaaand yes! There was the accompanying Head Shake of Disappointment. She plucked at the sleeve of his over-sized hoodie. "And what are you _wearing_? Abigail and her daughter will be here for dinner any moment!"

"Oooh, you want to make a good impression on Abigail's daughter," Warlock minced out from the monitor behind him.

There had to be a way out. A place where he could stay that wouldn't cost him a kidney and the soul of his firstborn. He could… join a monastery. He'd rock a long brown robe. But then they might want him to shave that bald spot on the top of his head and his hair was totally his best feature.

Damnit. 

"Ten minutes, Matthew. Then I'll expect you at the table."

Maybe he could run away and join the circus. But clowns made him nervous. Their big shoes freaked him the fuck out. And how did they all fit in those tiny cars? That was some seriously messed up shit.

Susan paused at the doorway, turning back to cock her head at the 'cam view of the Warlock in the top right corner. "I still have some pamphlets from the Bernstein Diet Clinic in my credenza, Frederick," she called out. "I'll mail them to you. Best regards to your mother."

"Dude," Warlock said into the silence when the door closed behind her and they were alone again. "You _gotta_ get your own place."

Matt threw up his hands. "Ya think?"

For once Warlock's full attention was on him. "You know I'd let you stay in the Command Centre, but it just wouldn't work out."

"It's fine, man."

"I need my space, dude! There are delicate matters that I'm working on that require intense concentration and total silence—"

"I get it." Matt leaned back in his chair; closed his eyes. "There's a whole sea of tents down in Battery Park," he mused aloud. "I could probably afford my own sleeping bag. But then I might have to start talking to myself—"

"You do that already."

"Ha."

"Case in point, dude," Warlock said drily. "Hey, listen. My mom's got that spare bedroom upstairs. I mean, that's where she runs her Etsy embroidery studio but I could talk to her, see about shutting it down for a while."

"Oh wow, thanks, Warlock, really, but… no. She brings in a fortune with those puppy samplers."

Warlock nodded. "The cocker spaniels are a big seller."

"I'll think of something," Matt said. 

He didn't. He sat there for another seven minutes and his ridiculously supersmart brain came up with nothing except an internal countdown to his mother's next appearance at his bedroom door and getting figuratively dragged by his collar to the dining table where he'd have to listen to his mother and Mrs. Breckenheimer start subtly planning his and Bernadette Breckenheimer's first date/first kiss/engagement party/wedding/honeymoon in Lisbon. 

"I don't even speak Spanish," Matt moaned.

"Okay, dude, you are weird," Warlock said. "And you are lucky that you have me, because I have the solution."

"Shoot myself and be done with it?"

Warlock snorted. "Move in with your hot bald boyfriend."

Matt's eyes opened; his feet came down to the floor with a thump. "He's not.. I can't even… I think 'my' is a little presumptuous."

"Jesus Christ, Farrell, you're with him all the time. And when you're not with him, you're thinking about him all the time. You talk about him all the time, because believe me if I could tune that shit out I would. You're wearing his goddamn shirt right now, aren't you?"

Matt glanced down at the NYPD logo on the sleeve of his hoodie. He may have pulled it on the last time he stayed at John's place, after waking up in the middle of the night and discovering that pajama bottoms just didn't cover it when John blasted the a/c. He may have loved the way it smelled of John, shaving cream and sweat and the cigarettes he snuck on the down-low. He may have fallen asleep in it when he was curled up on the sofa checking his cell phone. John may have found him there in the morning and ever so slowly pulled the zipper open, exposing his chest to cold hands and then warm lips. He may have snuck it into his backpack that day.

Matt blinked, suddenly aware of the Warlock's knowing smirk.

"I was cold," he muttered.

Warlock's eye rolls weren't as practiced as his mother's, but he gave it a good try. "Call him."

Matt huffed out a breath. "You don't… no, _I_ am not going to move in someone just to escape a bad situation at home. There's gotta be a better reason than that."

"Because you love him? Because you practically drool whenever he looks at you? That kind of reason?"

Matt really, really hates it when the Warlock gets all logical. "Shut up," he said.

"Oooh, great comeback, Farrell. You get Jimmy Fallon to write that one for you?"

Matt had an even better comeback, one that involved an elaborate finger gesture and some creative Polish that he'd learned from Connie Kowalski down at the precinct, but—

"Two minutes and I cut the power, Matthew!" his mother called.

"Kill me," he said imploringly. "Kill me now."

* * *

Two days later, Matt was sitting at his desk trying to figure out a polite way to turn down Bernadette Breckenheimer's invitation to her Labour Day Luau – he was still learning towards "fuck off, I'm gay" even though it seemed just a tad too blunt – when he heard raised voices in the hall. At first Matt just assumed that his mother was pissed off and yelling at one of the Dimera's again. Stefano in particular got her riled up. That tended to happen on days when she started drinking "orange juice" with lunch as well as breakfast.

But he usually couldn't hear _Days of Our Lives_ blasting all the way into his bedroom.

And none of the residents of Salem had that particular smoke-and-whiskey drawl.

Aaaaaaaand they also didn't barge into his room like a larger than life superhero.

"…realize we don't exactly see eye to eye there, Mrs. Farrell, and yeah, you might be right that I'm too goddamn old and cranky and set in my ways, but Matt is well past the age of consent – hey, kid – so it really should be up to him what he wants to do with his life—"

"Mr. McClane!" Matt had never seen that precise look on his mother's face before. Like maybe she'd swallowed a lemon. And several Mexican jumping beans.

"It's Detective," John said drily.

"He really hates it when people mess that up," Matt explained. And if his mother looked like she was suffering from a apoplectic fit, he.. well, he just couldn’t stop grinning. "Hey, John. What are you... I mean, it's great to see you, just really... but why are you—"

"Maybe we should discuss this privately," John said. Matt watched with amazement as his mother was escorted from the bedroom, John's big hand sprawled on the small of her back and her mouth still gaping open like a fish out of water, and honestly, he could relate to that out of control feeling. It tended to happen whenever John McClane was around. 

The door snicked softly shut and they were alone. 

"So…" Matt said when it became surprisingly apparent that his mother was just going to leave them be. Steamroller John pretty much ruled.

"So," John said. He clapped his hands together. "Thought I could help ya pack your shit."

Matt blinked. When nothing more was forthcoming, he prompted, "Forrrrr?"

"Movin' in with me, kid. That is, if you want to." John shrugged, took in the room with its ivory bedspread and chintz curtains. "Seems like this isn't the best place for ya, Matty. I got a big house, lots of room." He shrugged again when Matt remained silent. "It seems like a great plan to me, but I ain't no certifiable genius." 

"But how—"

"Mighta got a call from your tubby friend in Baltimore. And you know, riding to the rescue is kinda what I do."

"That _is_ your bag," Matt said. "But—"

"I like butt."

"You are _so_ lame, McClane. But," he held up a finger and John wisely shushed, "I don't want to move in with you just because my mother is a neurotic, homophobic, alcoholic control-freak."

"Sounds like a stimulating environment," John said wryly. "Understand why you'd wanna stick around."

Matt ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just saying—"

" _I'm_ saying that I want you around because I think you're pretty fuckin' great. Because I miss you when you're not there. 'Cause the bed is damn cold and empty without you in it." John smiled. "And 'cause I can always use a sidekick. Got an opening if you're interested."

"You leave yourself wide open for smutty innuendo, you know that, McClane? Jeeeez." Matt laughed. "A sidekick, huh?"

"Every decent superhero has one."

"Do I have to wear tights?"

"Hey, what you get up to on your own time is your business. I'm not gonna judge."

"Do I get to have a superpower?"

"You keep my heart beatin', kid."

Matt drew in a breath. He didn't often get teary – his world had always been one of defensive sarcasm, not… well, not this. Not the most alpha guy he'd ever met getting all Hallmark-card saccharine. Not a big paw wrapping around the nape of his neck and drawing him stumbling into an embrace that felt like love and safety and home. 

Not John's breath warm and moist at his ear as he murmured, "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad over here, kid?"

Matt didn't want to move out of the circle of John's arms, but he forced himself to shrug, to step back, to meet John's eyes. "I didn't want to be a charity case."

"Not possible," John said. "My partner. Never my charity case."

"Wait." Matt said. "So that 'my' isn't… presumptuous?"

"I'm presuming that you belong to me, so... yes? Or.. no?" John frowned, rubbed at his forehead. "I don't fucking know, kid. You're mine. That's it. That's all there is."

Matt nodded. "Good to know."

"So you'll move in with me?"

"Are you kidding? I have, like, three shirts and two pairs of jeans. We can take our time and still be home for dinner. I'll make nachos. You probably don't have the three cheese combo that I need, but we can always stop at the bodega on the way home, you know that one on Third? Mr. Rodriguez usually holds me some of that extra hot sau—"

When John smiled – not smirked or grinned, but truly smiled – it made Matt's chest ache. And when John kissed him like this – all grabby hands and thrusting tongue – it made him believe that there really were superheroes. After all, he had his own private supercop.

"By the way, John?" Matt said when John released him, breathless and no longer thinking about nachos. 

"Yeah, kid?"

"As your sidekick? I'm gonna want a cape."


End file.
